Page 42 of The Magic of Provence

They were the sound of hope. That, one day, Fi would be able to get past the walls she had built around herself.

That she would be able to stop running because she would find the courage to face what was hiding behind those walls.

That the path was still there and she hadn’t lost the first big step she had taken.

So it was perfect that Christophe was still smiling at her as if he, too, was aware of the change but was not going to let it break anything. Making a joke was all the reassurance she needed that nothing had been broken. That she was still safe with him, although it felt like a completely different kind of safety now.

It was enough to make her laugh but she still needed to hide her face again – this time, by peeping into the bags.

‘The long tubes are cannoli, which is a fried pastry that is stuffed with sweet ricotta cheese and flavours like pistachio or lemon. The ones that look like lobsters’ tails are aragostine – that is a baked pastry filled with cream.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m quite sure that Nonna’s cardiologist will not be happy with her eating them but… just a taste wouldn’t hurt, would it? They are her favourites.’ He shrugged. ‘And I want to make her happy because I love her.’

* * *

Seeing Christophe was quite clearly more than enough to make Flora Romano happy.

Propped up against her pillows, she was beaming as she held out her arms to enfold her grandson as he sat on the edge of her bed. Then it was Fi who had to be hugged, by both Flora and Maria, as the babble of Italian words flowed around her.

When the smile suddenly vanished from Flora’s face, Christophe patted her hand and said something more.

‘She’s disappointed that I’m going to take you home after this visit,’ he explained. ‘But I’ve said that you’ll come back soon.’

‘You must,’ Maria put in. ‘You haven’t seen anything of our lovely city yet, have you?’

‘Not yet,’ Fi agreed. ‘But what I saw this morning on the way here is so beautiful. The colours of the buildings are gorgeous. All the shades of pink and orange and yellow, like a pastel rainbow – I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Maria nodded. ‘We are famous for the beautiful colours of our old buildings. And lemons, of course. You’ve missed our festival of lemons this year but you’ll have to come back next year. In February.’

Fi just smiled and nodded. Who knew where in the world she would be by the beginning of next year?

‘We are the world capital for lemons,’ Christophe added. ‘You can forget California or India. There’s a legend that when Eve fled from the Garden of Eden, she took a lemon with her and she planted it here, in Menton. Or threw it away, because Adam was afraid of God’s wrath. Whatever…’ His smile matched his shrug. ‘OurFête du Citronis famous. We will have to go to the next one.’

‘I’d love to,’ Fi said. It didn’t matter if this was still part of the pretence for Nonna. It was true. Shewouldlove to go to that festival.

Flora’s eyes lit up as she saw what was inside the paper bags and she spoke with great animation to Maria, who shook her head but then smiled fondly at her mother.

‘Mamma wants coffee to go with her cake,’ Maria translated for Fi. ‘Coffee for all of us. Could you come with me to the cafeteria and help me carry everything?’ She lowered her voice. ‘I think Christophe would like a moment alone with his nonna.’

‘Of course.’

Fi was happy to follow Maria through the hospital corridors, bustling with staff members and visitors at this time of day having to dodge trolleys and wheelchairs and beds. There was a queue in the café as well, and it was when they were standing still, side by side, that Maria caught Fi’s gaze.

‘Christophe has made his nonna so happy,’ she said. ‘We are blessed that you came with him.’

‘He loves his nonna.’ Fi had to swallow a sudden lump in her throat. ‘And you.’

Maria’s gaze was warm but something in her face changed in a very subtle way that made that lump in Fi’s throat feel sharper.

‘He was such a sad little boy after his papa died. He had no brothers or sisters – only our adored little dog, Biscotti. He was just as sad when Biscotti got too old andhedied.’

Fi’s heart broke for a young Christophe who’d had to say goodbye to a beloved companion. ‘How old was he then?’

‘About fifteen. Too old to let anyone see how sad he was but… a mother knows, you know?’ Maria’s gaze was unwavering. ‘He tried to tell me that it is not something special between you, but…’

Had Christophe’s mother learned to do that eloquent shrug from her French husband or was it an ability that Italians were also born with? She didn’t need to say anything else. As far as she was concerned, the truth of that statement had been roundly dismissed. And a mother knew.

Fi should have been getting more used to that curl of sensation that was like a fuse being lit in her body and sending sparks in all directions, but she wasn’t. It took her completely by surprise every time. Even more so, this time. Because it was getting stronger?

Could Christophe’s mother see something that neither she nor Christophe was consciously aware of? Fi thought about that as Maria gave the order for their coffees. She collected a ticket and they moved to one side to wait.

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